He gazed blankly at the black ring for a moment, then chuckled to himself. What was he even thinking? No way.
That black ring was something he’d bought as a kid, duped by a shady street vendor who preyed on his innocence with some made-up tale about it being the “Emperor’s Ring.”
He’d worn it ever since. Even after learning he’d been scammed—which left him fuming—he’d grown used to it. Plus, it served as a little reminder, so he’d kept it on.
Shaking off the unrealistic fantasy, Yang Haoran replayed the images in his mind. They were so vivid and lifelike, as if he’d lived them himself. A flicker of doubt crept in again.
They said daydreams by day led to dreams by night. He’d read plenty of steamy novels before—like Aunt Shen’s Bitch and Master. When he hit an exciting scene, those plain words on the screen would dance into vivid, erotic visions that set his imagination on fire.
If he went to bed with those fantasies swirling, he’d sometimes have a glorious wet dream.
But dreams were fake. Upon waking, they dissolved into fog, fuzzy and unreal when he tried to recall them.
This time was different. He remembered every detail. Aunt Shen’s seductive, alluring expression floated clearly before his eyes.
“Should I call Aunt Shen and ask?”
Yang Haoran muttered to himself, phone in hand.
If it wasn’t a dream, she should remember it too.
He opened WeChat and stared at the contact “Aunt Shen,” torn.
Was now the time to confront her? Over some dream he wasn’t even sure was real?
After mulling it over, Yang Haoran let the idea go.
Real or not, he’d treat it as a dream for now—a steamy one with Aunt Shen. There were some unfinished promises in it, and maybe one day, reality would make them come true.
Still, that mysteriously tinged erotic dream left its mark on his heart.
With that settled, Yang Haoran suddenly noticed his pants felt sticky. His face froze. He didn’t need to check—he knew what had happened. A wet dream!
It lined up perfectly with shooting his load in Aunt Shen’s mouth from the dream.
He cracked open the door to bedroom door. The hallway outside was dead silent, pitch black.
Yang Haoran eased the door shut behind him and used his phone’s flashlight to guide his careful steps toward the bathroom, moving as quietly as he could.
It was so late—Mom and his sister had to be asleep by now. The last thing he wanted was to wake them.
As he passed Mom’s bedroom door, he crouched down and peered at the gap underneath. No light seeped out. He breathed a sigh of relief. Mom had turned off the lights and gone to bed.
Going to the bathroom this late to change his underwear would be awkward if she caught him. Hard to explain.
But then he thought: he’d been racking his brain for an excuse to get close to Mom. Wasn’t this a golden opportunity?
The idea sparked, and his mind raced into overdrive. In seconds, he had a plan.
The second floor was just for Mom, Yaoyao, and him. Ever since he was little, after Mom and Dad’s big fight, Dad had moved down to the first floor by himself.
He knew the rough story. Dad was from the countryside, his hometown far from G City. Back then, travel wasn’t as easy, and trips home were a hassle.
After Yang Haoran was born, Dad held out for a few years. But when he turned six, Dad couldn’t take the homesickness anymore and asked Mom to go back with him.
That was right when Mom’s company was taking off. The trip was long and uncertain, and she couldn’t leave the business. She said no, and that planted the seed of resentment between them.
Dad thought long and hard but didn’t take Yaoyao along—too far, and things were chaotic back then. He worried he couldn’t watch her properly.
That year, Dad took just Yang Haoran back to Grandpa and Grandma’s. The black ring came from a stall near Dad’s hometown.
As her son, Yang Haoran wasn’t one to judge Mom’s choice back then. But he knew she felt guilty—every year since, she’d taken him and Yaoyao to visit the grandparents.
With her aloof personality, even if she knew she’d been wrong, she’d rather make amends quietly on her own than swallow her pride and apologize to Dad.
She was like a proud swan soaring through the skies, head held high, refusing to bow.
Dad, on the other hand, was mild-mannered and refined—except about this. On it, he was stubborn as a mule. A total mule.
In Yang Haoran’s view, a real man could bend and stretch. What was wrong with owning up to a mistake? Especially when it was to a beauty like Mom, straight out of a poem or painting?
He settled on his plan, weighed its odds, and figured it was worth a shot.
He slipped out to the second-floor balcony, grabbed a pair of his dried underwear from the drying rack, and picked up a clothes pole. Then he returned to Mom’s bedroom door.
Yang Haoran took a deep breath, heart pounding like a thief in the night. He let go, and the clothes pole dropped straight down onto the cold tile floor with a sharp clatter—clang, clang!
In the dead quiet of night, the sound right outside her door might as well have been thunder. Yang Haoran waited, ears straining, nerves on edge. Seven or eight seconds later, faint noises came from Mom’s room. Soon, light spilled from the crack under the door.
The moment he heard her stir, Yang Haoran bolted. He snatched up the pole and hurried toward the bathroom, steps quick and urgent.
At the bathroom door, he didn’t go in right away. He pressed his ear to the wall, listening until familiar footsteps approached from afar, drawing steadily nearer.
